Dark Mirror - Diane Duane [67]
Behind him he heard the soft sound of the turbolift doors opening. He half-turned, feeling ashamed even as he did it that he should so exhibit his jumpiness—
And that was all that saved him from taking the phaser stun in the worst place, the spine and the back of the head, where it would have infallibly incapacitated him completely. Instead he caught it sideways, his turned body minimizing the target, giving the phaser less area to affect. Nonetheless he crashed to the floor with all his nerves on fire, unable even to put his hands out to break his fall, and the shock of the impact all up and down his body was almost as bad as the stun itself. He heard the sound of running footsteps, but couldn’t do the least thing about them, lying there, blind, his limbs refusing to answer him. Folly, said a severe voice back in his head, to venture out on your own in a place where captains need personal guards.
The footsteps stopped. Someone thumped down beside him. He couldn’t see, but he could hear breathing, hoarse, right above his head. He partly felt someone fumbling at his waist—and then the prick of something sharp between his chin and the soft part of his throat.
“Finally,” the voice whispered hoarsely. “Finally. It had to happen: even you had to get careless eventually. I’ve been waiting years for this. Ever since I could understand …”
After stun, said the cool voice in the back of his head, you only get one chance. Rest: conserve yourself. Pick the moment: choose your target correctly. Then give it everything you’ve got, because what you’ve got probably isn’t much at that point. In fact, all you’ve really got is surprise, because no one expects a stunned body to do anything.
The whispering voice, so close to his face that he could actually feel the breath of it now, told him where the throat was. He was on his back: he could tell that much. He could also feel that point, jabbed into his throat, sinking in a bit deeper. “I’ll probably make lieutenant now,” whispered the voice. “Not that I care. This is for my father—”
Picard rolled and swung, crashing his left forearm as hard as he could sidewise into the neck of the person leaning over him. The sharpness scored away from his throat as he rolled to pin the other’s body under him, finding its throat again with the now-free hand, pushing the left forearm down over it. There was a clatter. My knife, he thought, and it sounded as if it was out of range and out of reach. He leaned on that forearm, hearing horribly satisfying choking noises.
His eyesight started to clear. He found himself looking down into Wesley Crusher’s face, which was turning an interesting shade of puce. Picard let up the pressure—but not by much. “Mr. Crusher,” he growled, “you had better explain yourself.”
The young man choked and coughed and glared up into Picard’s eyes. “Just kill me and be done with it,” he sneered. “Don’t pretend the idea hasn’t crossed your mind before.”
Picard refrained from comment, electing to play the innocent for the moment. “Now why should I want to kill you?”
Ensign Crusher laughed bitterly. “For neatness’s sake, maybe. Wouldn’t it be so much tidier? To make a clean sweep? Two Crushers dead, and one who might as well be.”
Picard stared at him in horror. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach and wasn’t sure whether it was the stun or the awful suspicion that was rising in him. At least he was starting to feel strong enough to get up.
He did, hauling Wesley to his feet with him. “What are you doing away from your post?” he said, pinning the ensign against the wall by his throat and unholstering his phaser.
Wesley laughed again, that horrible, bitter, lost sound, and actually turned his head and spat on the floor at Picard’s feet, glaring defiance. “As if Riker and Troi wouldn